


Eager to Please

by Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Control, Praise Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, brief reference to canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8andrewz/pseuds/Kate%20Andrews
Summary: Habit inclines Bill toward choosing to be the adult in the room.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 14
Kudos: 143
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Eager to Please

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamquamm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquamm/gifts).



> Set vaguely season one road school era.
> 
> Thanks to Horchata for the last minute beta.

It's not until the two of them are leaving the bar full of celebrating cops, Bill ambling a couple steps ahead and fumbling with his lighter, that he realizes his partner is a drunk as he is. Holden pauses at the door and leans back in, calling something to the raucous assembly inside. Bill finally gets his Zippo to catch and he inhales as he contemplates Holden's back. His jacket's slung precariously over one arm, sleeve dangling nearly to the ground, and it looks like at some point his shirt came half untucked. A dark smudge on his pants extends from his hip to the curve of his rear end, from when the suspect knocked him on his ass as they'd been hauling the guy in several hours earlier. Bill inhales again and holds in the burn as he waits for Holden.

Finally, he turns back to Bill, grinning so hard his cheeks must ache (if he can feel his face, that is). He strides down the stairs, chest puffed out with pride, feet moving with misplaced confidence and landing wrong on the last of the three steps that lead to the parking lot. 

By some turn of luck, Bill manages to drop his cigarette and surge forward in time to half-catch Holden. He staggers back from the solid weight of him as they collide, but keeps his footing and eases his partner's flailing body down to the gravel.

With a giggle, Holden says, "Oops," and gets up on his hands and knees. Wobbling, he half gets up then appears to think better of it and returns to his knees at Bill's feet. "Sorry 'bout that." He looks up at Bill with shiny eyes and flushed cheeks as he sits back on his heels, probably dirtying the seat of his pants even further.

Bill just shakes his head and pulls his pack of smokes from his pocket. He extracts the last remaining cigarette, bent now thanks to their do-si-do. With a frown, he tears off the filter, sparks his lighter on the first try, thank you very much, inhales and enjoys the extra burn. He tips his head back and blows out a cloud toward the dark, star-spattered sky. No moon tonight. He waits and gives Holden an opportunity to get his shit together on his own. When no telltale crunch of gravel is forthcoming, he glances down at his still kneeling partner. "You okay there, champ?"

Holden blinks at him with those choir boy eyes and sighs contentedly, then breaks into a grin. "We saved her," he says proudly. "We did good."

Bill takes another drag and pats Holden's shoulder, then, cigarette dangling from his lips, he gets his hands under both Holden's armpits and hauls him upward. It takes a couple tries, but Holden manages to get to his feet, though he plants both palms on Bill's chest to steady himself as he sways. Bill waits, leaning into the pressure from Holden's hands as the cocky piece of work gets his bearings. On the next drag, Bill blows smoke in Holden's face, smirking as Holden scowls and coughs. "We got lucky," Bill says.

"And," Holden replies, still leaning heavily with one hand splayed on Bill chest, "*And* we did good. You're good. And I'm, I was really good."

Bill takes Holden by the shoulder, coaxing him to turn. For an unsteady drunk, he's surprisingly hard to budge. With an eye roll, Bill concedes, "Fine, yes, you did good. Good boy, Holden. Okay? Now can we, you know," he nods in the direction of the car. 

Holden still doesn't move. His smile fades, chin bunching up. Bill takes a quick step back. He points his cigarette at his partner and says, with deadly sincerity, "Don't you even think about vomiting on me."

Holden swipes a dismissive gesture at Bill, then scans the parking lot before marching off in a serpentine line toward their car. Bill fetches Holden's jacket from the ground and follows.

*

By the time Bill pulls into a space below the bright red neon No Vacancy sign and turns off the ignition, Holden's head is lolled to the side, eyes closed, lips parted around deep steady breaths. Bill gives him a terse, "We're here," and a shoulder shake, then he gets out and heads toward the room. After half a dozen steps he doesn't hear the door open and turns back to find Holden still in the front seat.

Briefly, he considers letting Holden sleep it off in the car. However, if the kid vomits in there they'll be smelling it for tomorrow's entire four hour drive. Just the thought of that raises the bile in Bill's throat, so he crunches his way back across the gravel to the car and opens the door. Holden nearly spills out before Bill grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him back up enough to approximate sitting.

Holden snaps awake with a snort, protesting, "M'good. I'm good. Yeah." When Bill unclenches his fist from around the rumpled shirt and holds out a hand, Holden grips it firmly and levers himself up out of the seat, slipping his hand from Bill's once he's upright. He takes an unsteady half step to the left, but when Bill hovers, Holden waves him back. After a petulant huff, Holden says, "I got it, Bill."

"Mm-hmm." Hands on both his partner's shoulders, Bill guides the man out of the path of the car door, shuts it with a kick, then takes him by the elbow and marches him toward their room. 

As they both learned when they arrived yesterday, the lock takes some jiggling, and while he's trying to finesse their entry with less than peak dexterity (and a busted overhead lightbulb offering fuck all in terms of illumination), Holden's arm slides around his shoulder. He whispers with his mouth right up against Bill's ear, "We saved her." He buries his warm, sweaty face in the side of Bill's neck, smearing the salty wet drip of it up to Bill's jawline, a long day's stubble offering a scraping friction with the movement. Holden's low, pleased, rumbling chuckle can be felt all along where the length of his body is pressed up against Bill.

Carefully, Bill levers his partner away and arranges him with his back to the brick beside the door. After a wordless order to stay via a finger jabbed into Holden's shoulder, he resumes fucking with the stupid lock. 

"Lemmee," Holden says, reaching for Bill's hands but Bill swats him away and with a final up, push, left, turn, he gets it and swings open the door into the room where the AC has been blasting. He seizes Holden by the arm more roughly than needed and marches him over to his bed, then returns to shut the door. As he locks it, a grunt, along with the protest of sagging springs, sounds behind him. He turns to see Holden face-planted awkwardly across the ochre bedspread. Bill takes the time to adjust the AC to a more reasonable temperature, since neither he nor his partner are sides of beef, then he removes his badge and gun and sets them on the narrow nightstand parked between the beds. He roots around Holden's belt area, ignoring the mumbled protests, until he manages to take the same two items from his partner and set them next to his own on the nightstand, nudging the heavy glass ashtray aside to make room. As he heads to the bathroom, he hears a muffled, "Thnks."

After a long, deeply satisfying piss, he strips off his button-down and rubs at the rising bruise that's half-covered by his sleeveless undershirt. During the interrogation, Holden managed to expertly push the killer's buttons with some explicit theorizing about what the man got up to with his pretty daughter (blonde curls, just like all the dead girls). Before anyone could stop the thickly-muscled man, he grabbed the tape recorder and hurled it at them, missing Holden but catching Bill square in the shoulder. Holden didn't skip a beat, pressing the issue as the killer twisted against the grip of the guards. Not long after, the guy cracked, sobbing about how deep down all women are sweet girls, you just have to make them quiet. Make sure they close their legs forever. Which was what, as Holden had deduced, the sewing their thighs together from crotch to knee with fishing line was all about.

He thinks about that as he undoes his belt and his fly, letting his slacks clank to the floor. When he steps out of them, he debates leaving them there but habit forces him to pick them up and at least sling them over the shower curtain rod alongside his shirt. He looks down for a moment at his own legs, at the faded line on the left one where, twenty-five years ago, he'd had his own bristling path of neat little stitches, fifty-two to be exact. The scar starts just above his knee, runs the length of his thigh and disappears beneath the leg of his boxers. He doesn't remember being opened up by the shrapnel, but he does remember the strange, painless sensation of the needle penetrating his skin over and over as his head swam with the morphine.

Bill splashes his face with cold water, drinks a few gulps from cupped hands, then peels the sanitary paper wrapping from one of the glasses on the sink before filling it and carrying it back out into the room. The bathroom door had been shut all day, the small window open, leaving it muggy as the August Missouri night outside. When Bill reenters the room, goose flesh rises up and down his arms at the chill.

His partner hasn't moved from his spot on the bed, though he has managed to kick one shoe off, baring his dark sock with its gold toe. Bill tosses the ashtray onto his bed to make room, then sets the glass on the nightstand and groans his way down to one knee to unlace and pry off Holden's other shoe. He collects its mate and sets them together, half under the bed. Then, bracing himself on his good knee, he heaves his way to his feet. He snatches up his lighter and heads to his suitcase. After some rooting around in the side pocket, he lays hands on the backup pack of smokes. He lights one and leans back against the dresser, again contemplating the smear of dirt on the back of his partner's trousers. He shakes his head to empty it of unhelpful thoughts, then clears his throat and orders, "Hey. Drink the water." 

In response, Holden just groans into the flowered bedspread. Bill heads back over to his own bed and drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. He toes off his own shoes, nudges them in the general direction of the nightstand, then reaches across the narrow space between their beds with his foot to kick Holden's. "Drink," he repeats, dinging his lighter against the water glass to get Holden's attention. 

Holden flings himself to his back with a whine, then levers himself up on his elbows and stares blearily at Bill. His hair is unruly, his smile lopsided and genuine. "We saved her," he says for the third time since they left the bar.

"Mm-hmm," Bill says, sitting back against the headboard and balancing the heavy, cool, amber-glass ashtray on his thigh. "Drink."

"Innaminute." Holden says, flopping to his back again. He reaches for his shirt and fumbles with his buttons, trying and failing for at least half a minute to undo the topmost one, which this late in the evening sits right over his heart. With a frustrated growl, Holden yanks at his shirt, popping a button.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bill grumbles, parking his cigarette between his lips and crossing the distance between their beds. He grabs Holden's ankles and swings them to lay squarely on the bed, then sits on the edge of his mattress. It dips precariously beneath their combined weight and Holden's close enough to the edge that his hip presses against Bill's. Holden's still fumbling with his buttons and Bill bats his hands away then makes quick work of the stupid things.

On a sigh, Holden says, "You're nice." He stares as Bill works his way down. "You are!"

"Mm-hmm, sit up." Bill grabs the collar of Holden's t-shirt and pulls. Thankfully, Holden complies without protest as Bill works the button-down off his shoulders, down his arms, and then tosses it in the general direction of Holden's suitcase. He ashes, then takes a dubious look at Holden. "Do I need to get the wastebasket?"

Holden scoffs.

"Just in case," Bill mutters. When he starts to get up, Holden's hand landing on his knee stops him. 

"What's this," the young agent slurs, his long fingers wrapping around the knob of Bill's knee.

In the chill of the room, Bill is strangely aware of the hot point of contact. He blows smoke out of the side of his mouth, resisting the urge to smack Holden's sweaty palm away. "I believe that's called a leg," he says dryly.

Holden hmmphs, then starts rubbing the edge of Bill's scar with his thumb. As he rubs, he worries his plump lower lip between his teeth, then his mouth opens around a few breaths, wet, reddened lips parting as he stares down at it intently. "No, this."

In a tight voice, Bill says, "I believe that is called a scar."

Holden lifts his head to frown at Bill, but doesn't stop stroking back and forth with the pad of his thumb. When he huffs in annoyance, the puff of booze-scented breath makes Bill deeply aware of just how close they are to each other. "No, yeah, I mean where'dya get it?"

"Korea. Shrapnel."

Holden looks down at it and slowly begins tracing the faded white line of scar tissue upward. "Ko-ree-ah," he repeats softly. "How old were you when you went to there?"

"Nineteen."

"Jesus," Holden whispers, continuing to trace the meandering, slightly puckered line as it veers inward and upward on Bill's thigh, to where the skin is less hairy and more sensitive. "Another couple inches and..."

"Femoral artery, I know. I'm one lucky son of a bitch." Bill's aware that he really should take Holden's hand off his thigh. Clearly, the kid's too drunk to grasp how handsy he's being, can't mean anything by it other than curiosity. As Holden's fingertips drift upward, there's an answering tug of warmth in Bill's stomach that he's wise enough to just note in passing and move on from. "Fifty-two stitches."

"Fifty-two," Holden echoes, sounding impressed as his fingertips finally reach the leg of Bill's boxers. That unwise tug comes again, deep in Bill's belly, halfway between his navel and his tailbone, and he's about to gently move Holden's hand away when Holden beats him to the punch and withdraws. Relieved, Bill takes another drag and ashes on the floor in anticipation of rising to go back to his own bed, but then Holden's hot hand curls around his knee and confidently nudges his legs further apart.

Before Bill can react, Holden's tracing the length of the scar once more, and this time when he reaches Bill's boxers, he just slips his fingers up into the leghole and keeps going until he finds the end of the scar a scant few inches from Bill's nutsack. Bill clears his throat.

Holden looks up at him guilelessly.

"You wanna maybe buy me dinner first?"

"Huh?"

Pointedly, Bill looks down at Holden's hand.

"Oh, right." Holden looks down, brow knitting in confusion, as though he isn't sure how that hand got there. What he does not do is move the hand. In fact, his fingers twitch against Bill's inner thigh. 

Thankfully, between the bourbon and the not being nineteen any more, Bill's dick has been slow to react to the casual groping. But he's not dead. Also, he hasn't been touched so intimately by anyone but himself in going on six weeks. Nancy's been tired. They've both been tired. Last time he touched himself so intimately, aside from washing, was a quick tug job in the shower in Des Moines...must have been four days ago? Maybe five? While the offending hand continues to rest there, he feels an answering pulse as his dick tries to decide whether or not to do something stupid like waking up. Bill's pretty confident that the reason he continues to sit here isn't that he's about to do something stupid, he's just exhausted by the day that started way back at three in the morning with a phone call about another missing girl. He's just summoning the energy to rise from this bed and return to his own. He's summoning the wherewithal to remove Holden's sweaty paw or just tell him to move it. But even this drunk, Holden should know better. He shouldn't need Bill to tell him what to do. Not that Holden ever fucking does as he's told. Holden's fingers twitch again, bringing Bill out of his thoughts. Okay, that's enough of that. 

"Agent Ford?" he asks after clearing his throat.

Holden licks his lips but doesn't look up. Then, slowly, so slowly Bill thinks he might be imagining it at first, Holden's fingers creep further up inside the leg of Bill's boxers, further still, until they reach the outskirts of Bill's scrotum. There's a little stutter in Holden's breath and then he swallows hard. His face is already flushed from the drink, but seems to go redder still. 

Where else is he flushing pink, Bill wonders, and his face feels hot just thinking that, but he manages to say in an even voice, "You wanna tell me what you think you're doing?"

"I--I dunno." Holden shakes his head and slips his hand from Bill's boxers. Bill exhales in relief, only to have his breath catch in his throat when Holden's hand settles right back down on the outside of Bill's boxers, squarely over the bulge of his half-hard cock. They both stare at it for a moment, then at each other.

Bill looks away first, gaze landing on the red-tinged sliver of light sneaking in around the edge of the curtain. He takes a deep, cleansing breath. Then, he sucks in one last drag to clear his partner's overwhelming scent from his awareness, before pinching out the cigarette and dropping it on the dingy brown carpet. When he looks back, Holden's still staring at him with those wide, curious eyes, bad ideas clearly percolating in that brain of his.

How fucking curious is the real question, Bill supposes. Is this all theoretical to Holden, this particular deviance. His partner isn't as cherry as he likes to come across, but he is a little fucking cherry around the edges, that much is for sure. And in real life, Holden never fucking listens, but Bill's instinct tells him that here, now, with this, Holden would. At that thought, Bill feels himself growing harder despite the fact that Holden's hand remains frozen. He can't ignore the weight of it though, or the heat, or the knowledge that thirty seconds ago was the best time to put a stop to this and still have a stab at claiming plausible deniability. 

Right now would be the second best time to put a stop to this, just take Holden's wrist and remove his hand and order him to go to sleep. Let them both chalk it up to drunken stupidity, if Holden even admits to remembering this tomorrow. Just pick up the handsy drunk's paw, move it, get up and say good night. Easy. But somehow, Bill finds that easy thing is not happening. Somehow, he can't deny the fact that he likes it when Holden looks at him like this, like the next thing out of Bill's mouth is all that matters. 

With a rasp in his voice, Bill asks, "You don't want to tell me what you're doing? Or you don't know what you're doing?" 

Holden shrugs, which shifts his palm ever so slightly. "Both I guess?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Bill asks, "So what exactly is your plan?"

Holden snorts. "Plan?" They lock eyes and the look of soft amusement slowly leaves Holden's face, replaced by something more searching. Questioning. He squeezes once, a slow, gentle clench around Bill's prick, his eyes never leaving Bill's, looking for God knows what. He does it again and Christ almighty does that feel amazing. Bill's eyes close and he grits his teeth. Tells himself that right now would be good, that this is also a point where he could conceivably get up and pretend this never happened. Or at least act like it.

Holden's free hand finds Bill's shoulder. He whispers, "I can stop," as his other hand arrives at the flap of Bill's boxers.

"I bet you can," Bill murmurs, then he hisses as Holden's questing fingers find the bare skin at the base of his stiff shaft. Clumsily, Holden tries to tug him out his fly, but it's a few inches too late for that to be anything but an uncomfortable shitshow, so Bill grabs Holden's wrist and pulls, extracting his hand from his shorts and holding it a safe distance away.

"Sorry," Holden says with an edge of a whine, slumping and burying his face against Bill's shoulder. "Sorry, you're right."

"What's that?"

"I said you're right."

Bill recognizes the exact moment when the illusion that he's going to put a stop to this crumbles away to nothing and says, "Sorry, I didn't hear that."

Holden lifts his head from Bill's shoulder and shoots him an annoyed pout. 

"What? I like hearing you say it."

There's a flicker of hope in his partner's eyes and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

Enunciating every last syllable, Holden says, clearly pleased with himself, "You. Are. Right. Bill."

"And what exactly am I right about?" Bill asks, giving Holden's still-captured wrist a firm squeeze. 

Confusion mars Holden's face. "About how we--we um."

"About how we what?"

"How we shouldn't, um..." he ducks his head and glances nervously at where Bill's hand is clamped around his wrist, tugs once, experimentally, then looks up at Bill through his lashes. Sounding phenomenally unsure, he whispers, "How we shouldn't--"

"Hey, Holden?"

Almost too quietly to hear, Holden says, "Yeah?"

"Shut up," Bill says. With his free hand, he reaches beneath the waistband of his own boxers, manhandles his erection out into the open, then takes Holden's hand and wraps it firmly around his length.

"Oh fuck," Holden groans, starting to stroke at once, firm and slow and with intention. "Fuck you're so hard."

"Yeah," Bill agrees, breathlessly.

Holden's face drops to Bill's shoulder again, mouth opening against his skin, breath coming in hot gusts, traveling to the crook of his neck. When Bill moans at a particularly good twist of his partner's wrist, he feels tongue then teeth against his neck. "Can I?" Holden starts, lips dragging on Bill's skin. "Can I please?"

Bill too dizzy with the pleasure and the wrongness and the unexpected closeness to summon a coherent answer at first. He's still sitting upright on the edge of the bed, both feet planted firmly on the floor. Part of him is shouting to get the fuck up and put a stop to this. Another part's got the bright idea to shove Holden down to the mattress face first and climb on top of him, rutting against that ass until he spills between Holden's plump cheeks. Yet another part asserts confidently that if he catches the back of Holden's head and pulls down, he wouldn't even have to tell him to suck, he'd just do it without hesitation. Probably gag in his eagerness to comply.

With all this shit going on in his head, Bill figures keeping his feet on the ground and both hands flat on the bedspread is a decent compromise, as good as he can handle at the moment, anyway. But when Holden all but whimpers another desperate, "Please," the truth is Bill finds he's powerless to stop himself from answering, "Yeah, sure. Fine."

Holden's hand abandons his cock and, with no grace, he shifts on the bed to kneel at Bill's side, Holden's right hand heavy and steadying on Bill's shoulder, his left, scented with Bill's dick, coming to rest on Bill's cheek and turning him to face Holden. Holden's thumb drags across Bill's mouth, tugging his lower lip down before Holden swoops in for a clumsy, wet kiss.

Even with all that buildup, the kiss startles Bill and he leans back enough to look Holden in the eye. The nerves are clear on the young man's face, and as Bill watches, doubt creeps in. He starts to pull away, but Bill captures the back of his neck in a firm grip and doesn't allow retreat. They pant into each other's faces like that, Holden's gaze sinking to Bill's lips over and over again. Bill knows his voice sounds wrecked when he asks, sincerely, "You really think this is a good idea?"

The corner of Holden's spit-slicked mouth quirks and with a cocked brow, he resumes eye contact with Bill. "I thought you liked my ideas." More carefully this time, Holden leans in and presses a kiss to Bill's lips. His hand finds Bill's knee once more, then moves on confidently to his cock. Bill nips at Holden's mouth and presses in with his tongue, feeling Holden's curl against him, groaning as Holden's fist speeds up, his strokes steady even as his kisses are hesitant. 

Kissing while he does something like this, with someone like this, that's new for Bill. Sure, he traded a few friendly, lonely hand jobs before, back in the army, out of boredom or stress or sheer hornyness. In fact, not twelve hours before he got the scar on his leg, him and a buddy who'd died in that same attack had passed the time with a mutual jack off session. But it's not like they ever kissed like a couple of queers, at least that's what he'd told himself at the time. That's how he'd rationalized it. 

A fading voice in the back of his head asks how the fuck he's going to rationalize any of this, but then Holden pulls back long enough to spit on his palm twice and resume stroking Bill with a slicker heat that makes Bill's toes curl against the shitty motel carpet. He groans, and Holden's mouth slips from his, drags its way down his neck. When Holden sucks, scraping his teeth over Bill's skin, Bill groans again. Holden sucks harder, hand speeding up, and Bill grits out, "I swear to God if you give me a hickey..."

"You'll what?" he asks, sounding positively wrecked. His muffled laugh sends a shiver through Bill. 

He closes a hand around Holden's fist and slows it just a bit, guides it to the head, murmurs, "Easy, that's good, that's it, you've got it." Holden's grip loosens enough to let Bill guide him into the home stretch. The heat's just radiating off of Holden as Bill edges closer to the precipice and he turns, nuzzling toward Holden's mouth, finding his long neck, then that jaw, and finally Holden gets the hint and brings their lips together in time to catch the choked gasp Bill makes as he starts spilling sloppily into their intertwined hands. 

The thing hits him like a sucker punch, robbing his breath from his lungs and his brain from his head and for an indeterminate stretch of heartbeats, his partner holds on to him, one arm around his shoulders, the other resting against Bill's arm as he continues to spurt and shudder. Their fingers slip together in the mess and Bill finally sucks in a shaky breath, then another and when the white-out fog of pleasure lifts enough to return Bill to more-or-less aware of his surroundings, he feels Holden's mouth at his neck again.

Sucking.

Jesus fucking Christ.

With all the muscle memory of three years of high school varsity wrestling, and plenty of combat training besides, he catches Holden's wrist in his slick hand and twists, moving Holden's whole body and pinning him back on the bed. He's sitting astride Holden's hips before the guy can do more than blink at him. Reflexively, Holden bucks and pushes at him with his free hand, but that gets pinned beside his ear in short order too. Another couple seconds of struggling and Holden yields, looking up with mostly curiosity and a sliver of fear, the reaction to which Bill is in no condition to process rationally so he just waits long enough for Holden to settle and for the fear to melt into annoyance.

"I. Warned. You," Bill says with a scowl. "I told you If you gave me a hickey--."

Holden juts his chin defiantly. "You'll what?"

Bill's grip loosens, then he releases Holden's wrists and sits back on his heels. Expression set in annoyance, Bill tucks his sticky, flaccid dick back in his shorts and stares down at Holden's dark-eyed, slack-mouthed face. His lips are reddened, his hair chaotic and darkened with sweat. "You are a piece of fucking work," Bill says, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. "You know that, Holden?"

"I apologize," he recites insincerely, hands still resting where Bill left them on either side of his head. "I got carried away. It won't happen again."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with you? Huh?"

Holden shrugs, then the asshole folds his hands behind his head and arches his neck a little as he settles back against the bed, nipples visibly stiff beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt. At some point, he must have undone his own fly and in the tussle, his slacks managed to slip far enough down his hips to reveal the top half of his bleach-white briefs. The obscene thickness of his erection strains upward against the cotton and the smug little fucker's just smirking up at him, waiting for his reward. Or maybe his punishment. Or maybe this thing going on between them is some fucked up mix of the two.

Christ.

And if this isn't some stupid one-off drunken mistake and come tomorrow or next week there *is* something 'going on' between them then they really are fucked. God, who is he kidding, they are undoubtedly already fucked. Of all the people in the world to do stupid shit like this with, Holden is probably the last one capable of letting it just fucking be a thing that happened and forget about it. Bill can actually feel the tension headache starting at the thought of being trapped in a car with a Holden who is insisting they process their goddamn feelings about it. He realizes Holden is frowning up at him. "What?" he asks sharply.

Holden swallows hard. "Are you okay?" He shifts to prop himself up on his elbows. 

Something inside Bill doesn't like that. Something very deep inside of him wants Holden to stay down right now, and with a quick, targeted shove of palm to sternum, Holden's flat on his back again, where he belongs. Beneath Bill's hand, Holden's heart is pounding. Deep inside of Bill, that something is satisfied. For now.

"Am I okay?" Bill asks, not exactly liking whatever that edge in his voice is, but he's forced to admit he does like the way Holden stutters when he replies. 

"Y-yeah?"

"Oh I'm just peachy, thanks for asking." 

With a soft uncertainty, Holden asks, "Are you mad at me?"

"Are you fucking serious?"

Holden crosses his arms over his stomach, classic protective body language. His dick's still hard as a rock, though. He worries his lip between his teeth and studies Bill. "O...kay?" he finally says.

Bill sighs heavily. It's not like they're not both adults here. It's not like Holden's not a grown man responsible for his own actions, no matter the excuses of booze and exhaustion. Still, habit inclines Bill toward choosing to be the adult in the room and he finally answers, "No, Jesus, relax. I'm not mad at you."

Holden studies him a little while longer, then uncrosses his arms, laying one back up so that his hand lies right where Bill put it before. With the other, he reaches out and lays a palm on Bill's knee. "Good," he says quietly. "I'm glad. I don't like it when you're mad at me."

"So which is it," Bill asks. When Holden looks confused, Bill adds, "You don't want to tell me what you're doing, or you don't know what you're doing? Which one is it? I'm going to need you to say."

Holden shrugs.

"Out loud."

Holden closes his eyes and swallows. Finally, he confesses, "I have no idea what I'm doing and I think I might be a little drunk."

Bill coughs a laugh. "You think?"

"But I'm," Holden says in a rush, eyes flying open. "But it's not, that's not, I don't think..." his voice trails off. He examines Bills face for several breaths before continuing, "But it's not *just* that. I don't think so, anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Holden affirms, which gives this shitshow another layer, Bill supposes, even if he figured as much already.

"You do understand this is asking for trouble, right?"

"I can be discreet," Holden says, indignant.

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm not an idiot."

"Sometimes you're not entirely useless, no." 

"Look, if this is something I--we--uh if you think it might be better or at least, I don't know, not so--"

Bill lays his free hand over Holden's mouth. "Hush," he says firmly. Holden's mouth stops moving against his palm. Something dark and needy flashes in Holden's eyes as they widen. Bill takes note, letting the observation pass him by and file itself away for some later date. Maybe. Probably. Oh, who is he kidding. He removes his hand and presses an impulsive kiss to Holden's mouth, then leans further and grabs his lighter and cigarette pack from the nightstand. After a moment's thought, he fetches the ashtray too, and sets it on the bed. He sits back on his heels again and watches Holden squirm as he slowly, deliberately lights up, drawing in some steadying nicotine. 

After another drag, he snaps his lighter shut and taps the lighter against the heavy glass of the ashtray a few times as he watches the way Holden's white cotton t-shirt stretches across his stomach. He notes the softness of Holden's belly, not yet tipped over into flab and solid at its core. He knows that much from hauling Holden's body around tonight. But he's not all hard young angles either, not like his skinny friend back in Korea. No, Holden is well fed. It's like he's got a layer of cream on top.

On a whim, Bill picks up the ashtray and sets it down square in the middle of Holden's chest, right over his sternum. Then he sets his lighter down just below it. Another drag, watching the items rise and fall gently with each of Holden's rapid, shallow breaths. He ashes in the ashtray, sets his cigarette in one of the grooves, then makes a decision. With deliberate care, he slips a finger under the elastic of the waistband of Holden's briefs. Holden flinches, and the movement shifts the ashtray a few inches. Bill returns the the ashtray to its original position, points at Holden, and says softly, "Stay still."

"Y-yes sir."

Bill goes back to his task. Soon, there it is, Holden's fat, pink cock, curved and shiny wet at the tip. Holden's head twists to the side and he moans, reaching down and wrapping a hand around it, squeezing white-knuckle hard until Bill's quiet "No" gives him pause. "Drop it," Bill adds, like Holden is a dog who's got something he shouldn't. Holden instantly obeys, offending hand hovering, then landing on Bill's thigh. 

Fetching his cigarette and parking it between his lips, Bill takes first one then the other of Holden's wrists and presses them back to either side of his head. The look in Holden's eyes says he'll stay where Bill puts him, and at that thought Bill feels a fierce uncurling inside. He gives them a squeeze then releases them and sits back again, plucking his cigarette from his mouth with his left hand. With his right hand, he takes hold of the base of Holden's cock and enjoys watching the arching shudder course through him. When Holden's eyes drift up and closed, Bill says, "No," again and Holden's eyes flutter open. "Look at me," he says, and Holden obeys.

Holden studies Bill's face as Bill's hand works him up and down at a slow, deliberate pace. Leisurely even. Bill studies him right back, taking the occasional puff and blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. It's a nice cock, just a little bigger than Bill's and cut, while Bill isn't. 

The thought of putting it in his mouth enters his mind, and at first that thought is met with a reflexive disgust. Next is the reasonable assumption that Holden would last about ten seconds, regardless of the skill Bill brought to bear on the task, which would be zero, given he's never sucked dick before. On the handful of occasions he'd had the opportunity, the desire wasn't there, or at least it wasn't enough to outweigh the disgust and fear. Somehow this desire feels different. He doesn't indulge the urge, but he can't escape the knowledge that in this moment, Holden would take just about anything Bill had to give. 

Holden's next breath shudders as he releases it, his stomach clenching, eyes rolling up and Bill takes his hand away. "No," he says softly, waiting until Holden's eyes meet his again. He readjusts the ashtray, stubs out his cigarette with deliberate care, then drops the lighter in the ashtray with a clank and leans over to deposit them on the nightstand. Holden jerks and whimpers softly when Bill takes him in hand again and begins to stroke, even slower now. He's not sure why he doesn't want Holden to come. He just knows he's not done just yet. 

He can admit to himself that he'd like to see what Holden looks like when he begs, and he knows that Holden will beg. In real life, Holden is the type to seek forgiveness, but here, Bill's certain he'll ask for permission, and he is not wrong. 

"I'm so close," Holden whimpers. "Please? May I?" His hips jerk up, cock flushed nearly red and so stiff it points straight up toward his navel, just enough curve it nearly brushes the cotton of his t-shirt. One touch, maybe three and Holden would lose it, Bill thinks. Probably come so hard he'd hit his own face, and hot on the heels of that thought is the pornographic image of Bill coming all over Holden's face, semen trickling down his cheeks, or Bill stuffing that smart mouth so full of cock Holden would gag. But he'd keep going, wouldn't he. He'd double down and look up at Bill with challenge in his eyes and dedicate himself to seeing it through to the bitter end.

Then comes a thought that spikes heat in Bill's belly all over again, the image of a kneeling Holden, lips stretched around Bill's prick, defiant eyes blazing as he throws himself into the task of giving what would probably be a shitty but enthusiastic blow job. He hasn't got a second round in him, certainly not when he's this tired and still half buzzed, but Christ, the thought does have its appeal. It occurs to Bill that the next time they're suited up and doing their job and Holden starts running his overconfident mouth, his now familiar thought of 'just shut it for one minute will you' will be replaced, or at least accompanied, by this image of Holden's full mouth.

Bill's no stranger to intrusive thoughts. Seeing things he can't unsee is what earns him his fucking paycheck, and he's human, but he's also got a lot of practice putting those images out of his head, or at least putting them in their place, keeping them to work hours. Where the fuck is the place for this? 

He realizes his pace has slowed and he looks down to find Holden's still staring up at him, breath a little more measured now, hands still where Bill put them, though now they're balled into fists. Some of the desperation has dissolved, replaced by a return of that sharp, curious gaze, still studying, still trying to figure this out, like there's some fucking answer to be had. He isn't expecting it when Holden's parted lips purse around the word, "What?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's that look?" Holden clarifies.

"What look?" He lets go of Holden's cock.

"The one on your face right now. Is this going to be a problem?"

"A problem how?" Bill asks evenly.

"I don't know," Holden starts shifting to sit up on his elbows.

Once more, Bill pushes him down and watches the confusion and uncertainty flit across Holden's open face. Maybe, Bill thinks. Maybe this is going to be a problem, but probably not on his end. Then again, who the fuck knows. "Problem like am I going to have some homophobic overreaction and punish you for springing a drunken hand job on me one night out of nowhere?"

"I--"

"Nah," Bill says, answering his own question. "Problem like is it going be a distraction for you, imagining my dick in your mouth while we're interviewing these assholes?"

Holden's eyebrows shoot up and he says, "Now that sounds like projection."

"Oh does it? Or do you perhaps mean problem like is Wendy going to sniff it on us, somehow figure out we're fucking, resulting in an awkward work environment that negatively impacts our vitally important mission."

A flash of realization and fear lights up Holden's eyes. "Oh God, do you think she...I mean." He turns thoughtful. "She doesn't seem like she'd be judgmental. Not about the homosexual behavior. She'd probably say it was unprofessional."

"You think?"

"I think," Holden starts, choosing his words carefully. "I believe that this doesn't have to affect our working relationship. Especially," he swallows. And there's that searching look again, like the goddamn answer is somewhere on Bill's face. "Especially if this is a one time anomaly."

"An outlier."

"Yeah."

"Is that what you want, Holden?"

"I--" he starts. Then his mouth opens and closes a few times before he says with what sounds like brutal honesty, "Like I said, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Or do you mean," Bill starts, feeling a surge of honesty of his own, acknowledging to himself that if they don't hash this out now, one or both of them will likely bottle this shit up until it festers. Not that Bill's one to talk too much about his fucking feelings, but the two of them do have the responsibility to keep their shit sorted enough that they present a united front to the monsters they study. Any whiff of awkward tension between them is a weakness to be exploited. Hashing it out now is no guarantee that can be avoided, but their work is too valuable, this thing they have built is too valuable for Bill not to at least try. Talking. About their fucking feelings. 

Now, the smart thing to do, the adult thing thing to do would be to say yes, this incident was indeed a one-off, an experiment never to be repeated, a mistake. The responsible thing to do would be to extract a promise from Holden that this will never be mentioned again and Bill is nothing if not responsible.

With all the tension suddenly fled from his voice, Holden skims a thumbs back and forth over Bill's knee as he says, "I'm not going to tell anyone." He sounds like he's made up his mind about something. Oh great.

Bill shoots him a look like 'No shit, Sherlock.'

"And you're not going to tell anyone." Not a question. Or a request. Just a statement of fact.

"What, you don't think Nancy'd get a kick out of it?"

Holden blanches like he's only now remembering that Bill is married. 

"Jesus Christ, no, obviously I'm not going to tell anyone, and no." He wraps his hand around Holden's flagging erection. "I don't think this has to be a problem." He starts stroking again. "And as for whether this is an anomaly, or a..." he searches for a word that might be remotely applicable.

"Or a pattern," Holden says in a breathy voice, eyes fixed on the way Bill's hand is traveling up and down his length.

"Sure. Or the start of a pattern. As for that, I'm not a fucking psychic, am I?" Bill watches the play of pleasure and tension on Holden's face. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Holden bites his lip and nods and there's a glimmer of mischief in his eyes that unsettles Bill. Not because he doesn't trust Holden, but because by now, he knows Holden. He knows how his mind works. He knows how fixated the man can get, and he's not psychic but he can see pretty clearly into a future where Holden's consumed to the point of distraction with whether or not he should make a move. He can see a future where Holden gets a little more drunk a little more often in an attempt to make this happen again, because that's sure as shit something him and his buddy did in Korea. He can see the two of them getting sloppy. He can definitely see Holden getting sloppy.

"Or no," Bill says, slowing his strokes.

Holden peers up at him through lust-darkened eyes and echoes, "No?"

"No," Bill repeats, speeding up again. "*You'll* just have to wait and see. I don't want any more surprise drunken handjobs from you. You don't make passes at me, you got that?"

"Y-yeah?"

"You don't have to worry about whether or not this happens again, because it's not up to you."

"It's not?"

"No. It is not," Bill says, making a decision. "*If* this is gonna happen again, I will let you know, not the other way around. Do you understand?"

"Okay? But...what if I say no?"

"I don't want you if you're saying no."

Holden swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"How do you want me?" Holden asks breathlessly.

Pornographic images flash through Bill's mind, like photos from a crime scene. Holden splayed out and bound, stretched and glistening. The back of Holden's head bobbing up and down in Bill's lap, obscenely wet noises filling the car. White splashes of semen dripping down his chin. The swell of his ass, bruised like a fucking peach, jiggling rhythmically as Bill pounds him from behind on some squeaky motel bed, Holden's face mashed against the pillow in hopes of muffling his cries. Bill takes a breath, lets it out slowly, then says, "Eager to please."

Holden shivers. His eyes rolls up, his lips part and he literally shivers.

"*But*, I will let you know. Is that clear? Tell me you understand, Holden," he says, continuing to stroke and placing his free hand high on Holden's chest, high enough that his thumb skims Holden's throat. When Holden swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing again, Bill doesn't just see it, he feels it.

"Oh God, yes. Yes, Bill, I understand."

"Give me your word," Bill says, surprised at the growl in his voice. He strokes Holden's throat just once with his thumb.

Holden's body stiffens beneath him and he blurts out, "I do, I promise, I swear to you."

"What do you swear?"

"I swear it's up to you, I promise, I won't, just please."

"Please what?"

"Please say I can come. I'll be good, I swear I'll be good for you, so good, please, Bill. Please."

Something about the combination of the whiny edge to Holden's voice, the shuddering thread of self-control he's white-knuckling, the steady leak of precome slicking Bill's fist, and the fact that for once, Holden is being good, is trying to do as Bill says, gets him right in the gut. He's not rising to the occasion a second time tonight, but damn if his dick doesn't want to. Especially when a few other thoughts, even filthier thoughts about what Holden might let him do at this moment intrude upon him.

"You are good," Bill murmurs, allowing the thoughts to come.

Holden whimpers and twists his head to the side, grabbing at the bedspread, breath heaving hard. "Am I good?" he asks in a breathless whisper.

"Yeah, Holden." He realizes with a start his palm has crept from Holden's collarbone to his throat, no pressure, just resting there against his rapid pulse. He returns it to Holden's chest, right over his heart, and rubs in a slow circle, says in a soothing tone, "Yeah, you are, you're good for me. You're so good. You wanna come? Is that what you want? Is that all you want?"

"I want, I want you to, oh *fuck*. Please touch me oh God you I want I want *you* Bill please!"

Bill doesn't realize how far he's leaning over until Holden's hands clutch his head and jerk him down, Holden's head lifting to meet Bill's mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. Bill has to let go of Holden's cock to catch himself on the mattress and avoid crashing down against him, crushing him. Holden's hips rut up, chasing friction against Bill's body, and a sadistic thrill goes through Bill at the thought of getting up right now and seeing if Holden really can do as he's told. He bets Holden would. He bets he could get up and turn off the light and Holden would lie there in the dark, dripping onto his belly, aching for hours until his cock deflated and sleep claimed him. 

But Bill's not a sadist. And that isn't what he wants. He tears his mouth away from Holden's long enough to rasp against his throat, "Go on. Do it. Come for me." He reaches between them and takes Holden's cock in his hand, just grips it and drags his thumb over the dripping head.

Holden arches and keens, arms wrapping around Bill and squeezing him stranglingly close, hips jerking, wet heat spreading against Bill's hip as he shakes and chokes out gasp after gasp. It seems to go on forever, the aftershocks and the soft little incoherent, high-pitched noises and the hands clenching at Bill's back. "Fuck," Holden finally whispers when he gets his words back. "Fuck. Holy shit. Christ, Bill. Fuck."

As Bill nuzzles his neck and feels the pounding in Holden's chest finally slow, one of Holden's hands skim up to the back of Bill's head and direct him toward one more lingering kiss. Bill lets himself get pulled and kisses Holden back. It's been ages, decades since Bill has kissed someone new, someone whose every corner and quirk and noise he didn't know by heart. Holden doesn't kiss like any women Bill's ever been with, but already, their styles are falling into step. Already, kissing Holden feels easy, and that scares him as much as any of this madness has.

One more lingering suck of Holden's lower lip and Bill finally tears himself away, rolling to flop to his back, shoulder to shoulder with him on a mattress that is not built for a pair of grown men. A glance finds Holden blinking up at the ceiling thoughtfully, that brain of his clearly going a mile a minute. Jesus. The last thing they need tonight is any more of Holden's bright ideas.

With a groan, Bill hauls himself upright and swings his legs to the floor on the far side of the bed. He eases to his feet, then pads over to where his suitcase sits open on the dresser. He slips off his shorts, makes a half-hearted attempt to mop at the mess on his stomach and thighs, then pulls on a fresh pair. Holden's suitcase sits open beside his, so Bill fishes out a rolled up pair of briefs and tosses them at Holden, earning a "Thanks."

"Drink the water," he says, rooting around in his shaving kit for the small bottle of aspirin, then tossing that at Holden too. Holden catches it, opens it, shakes a few into his palm and knocks them back, then takes a drink and tosses the asprin bottle back to Bill, who catches it, dry swallows a couple, then tucks the bottle back in its place.

"I'm not, I wasn't that drunk," Holden starts, his mind clearly still going a mile a minute.

"Stop," Bill tells him tiredly. The pills feel stuck in his throat, so he stalks to the space between the beds and takes the glass out of Holden's hand, draining it and heading to the bathroom to refill it.

"Stop what," comes the voice behind him as the water runs. Bill returns, holds out the glass and Holden takes it, draining it and setting it on the nightstand. He looks up expectantly at Bill. "Stop what?" he repeats very calmly.

"Stop thinking."

"I don't believe that's a reasonable request," Holden says, appearing even more unsettlingly calm now. "But you have my word, about what you asked before."

"Okay."

"Do you believe me?"

"We'll see. Go to sleep, Holden."

"Yes sir," Holden replies with a trace of a smirk and a half-assed salute. As Bill sits on his bed, back against the headboard, Holden gets up, and Bill grabs one last cigarette for the night. He tries sparking his lighter, then again, as Holden heads over to his suitcase and, facing away from Bill pushes off his slacks and underwear, then bends at the waist to pick them up. Bill finds his mouth momentarily dry as he takes in the bare, smooth swell of Holden's round rear-end. Not a womanly ass, not wide enough for that in the right places, but it is a plump one. Holden pauses the cursory wipe down he's giving himself and looks over his shoulder, catching Bill checking him out.

Bill successfully resists the urge to look away guiltily and instead stares back as he tries his Zippo a few more times then gives up. "I got another lighter in the side pocket," he says in a voice that comes out rougher than expected. "Toss it over here."

Holden looks at him for another few seconds, calculating. He opens his mouth to say something then seems to think better of it and picks up the fresh underwear. With deliberate care, he bends over again, ass pointed right at Bill and steps into the briefs, tugging them into place and fastidiously adjusting the waistband. Then, he strips off his T-shirt, pulls out a fresh one and takes his his sweet time to put that on, then a pair of pajama bottoms as well, all while Bill watches, bemused. Holden moseys over to Bill's suitcase as he ties the drawstring, then fetches the lighter.

Like he's got all the time in world, he strolls toward Bill, stops in front of him and takes the pack from him, returning it to nestle between their badges and guns. Bill looks at him, cigarette dangling down from his lips. A lift of his chin and a shift of his lips and the cigarette is pointing up toward his partner who sparks the lighter and holds out the flame. Bill cups Holden's hand, their fingers brushing as he leans in and inhales. He sits back as Holden snaps the lighter shut and returns it to sit atop the pack to the nightstand. Without a word, he then turns off the light and crawls into bed. Holden rolls to face him and the dim parking lot light that sneaks around the edges of the curtains is enough to reveal that Holden's eyes are open and he's watching Bill. Bill watches him right back until he finishes his cigarette. Then he stubs it out in the ashtray and crawls under the covers to wait for sleep to come.

The sound of a key jiggling in the front door wakes Bill. With a yawn, he rolls over and peers that way in time to see Holden shoulder his way in, keys in one hand, tray with two coffee cups in the other and a paper bag clenched between his teeth. "Mrnin," he mumbles around it, pocketing the keys and tossing the bag on his neatly made bed, then plucking a paper cup from the cardboard carrier and holding it out for Bill.

Bill takes it and eyes him with, if not wariness, careful observation. He half sits up, eases the lid off and takes a sip.

"Six sugars, but here's extras if you need 'em," he says, dropping a small army of white paper packets on the nightstand, then sitting and taking a sip of whatever's in his cup. "Ham and egg," he says, nodding at the sack of breakfast beside him. He's full of energy, but not particularly nervous energy, just his usual chipper morning bullshit. "So, I have more thoughts on the Portland case."

Bill takes another perfectly sweet swallow of the hot coffee and makes an affirmative grunt, which launches Holden into a theory monologue that Bill half listens to. Last night's all there in Bill's head in Technicolor as he sits the rest of the way up and finds the floor with his feet. The celebration. The drive home. The hand up his shorts. The needy whine Holden made when he came. The promise Bill extracted. The concerns he had as he waited for sleep, that Holden would want to talk about it in the morning, or that he'd be weird. Instead, there he sits, not a hair out of place, cool as a fucking cucumber.

For a moment, Bill resents Holden, deeply and sincerely, for seeming entirely unaffected by the grenade he tossed into their partnership last night. No, the landmine they planted together. They're both responsible. Maybe it isn't on his mind. Maybe he honestly doesn't give a shit. Maybe he's just really committed to doing as Bill asked and letting him take the lead. Whichever it is, Bill reminds himself to be grateful that this is what he's getting and not some emotional crisis. "Mm-hmm," he says at what seems like an appropriate pause.

"Right?" Holden nods vigorously. "I know, so here's the thing." He gets up and starts pacing as he unfurls the rest of his theory.

Bill nods and then leans over as he sits on the edge of the bed and rattles out his traditional morning chest clearing cough, then taps out his first smoke of the day. Holden pauses his torrent of words and beats him to the nightstand, snatching up the Zippo and for a second, Bill braces himself for a fucking anti-smoking lecture. But Holden just flicks the lighter and holds out the flame. 

Bill looks up at him as he inhales, then plucks the lighter from his grip and snaps it shut. "Hold that thought," Bill says, groaning his way to his feet and nodding in the direction of the bathroom.

Holden's blocking the path out from between the beds. He starts to step back, but then his gaze drops to Bill's neck and he blanches. "Um, right. Sorry." He takes another step back, still in Bill's fucking way, then clears his throat says, "So, uh, you were right and I'm sorry, but I think," he gestures at Bill's neck. "I think it's going to be okay." Bill takes a drag, fully aware of what Holden's referring to but enjoying the bursting of his butter wouldn't melt bubble too much to let on. Holden continues, "I think your collar, I mean, I was careful."

"Oh? Is that what you were last night?"

Holden's expression stays neutral even as his face flushes a heated pink. "You know what? You're right. I'll just, I'm gonna," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll go get us checked out." He retreats enough to allow Bill a path to the bathroom.

"You do that," Bill mutters as he pads over to the bathroom. In the mirror, he sees what the fuss was about, two mouth-sized purple-red bruises low on his neck, close to where it meets his shoulder. Far enough down that Holden is right, his collar will probably cover it. It's been so long since he's had a hickey for fuck's sake that he's not sure how long it will take to fade. It had better by the time they fly home in four days.

*

The next night, the next city, the next grim little motel and Bill's on edge. He takes the bed closest to the door, as usual, and the two of them go through their well rehearsed routine of settling in for the night. Holden flosses. Bill reads files. The evening news drones as background noise for a little while, and if Bill's attention gets caught by the sliver of stomach revealed between the waistband of Holden's pajama bottoms and the hem of his t-shirt, it's only for a moment. Holden keeps his word, and there's not so much as a hint of what went down the night before. Not significant glances or guilty avoidance. If it weren't for the bruise where Bill's neck meets his shoulder, he might think he dreamt it. He catches Holden glancing at the mark only once, as he's rattling off the second of three theories he's got about the bodies in the quarry. He blinks, but his voice doesn't waver, and he returns his gaze to the folder in his lap. 

There's nothing out of place from Holden the next night, or the next. He's being good, just like he promised. Bill doesn't know if what he feels is disappointment or relief. Then it's the night before they're due to fly home. Tonight, as they settle into a decent hotel close to the airport, Holden's seething, even though it's been hours since they discovered their best suspect abruptly left town for Alaska, or possibly Montana. Or maybe Arizona, depending on who you asked. By this hour, Bill is under the covers, thumbing through a middling spy novel as he waits for Holden to wear himself out. The angry monologue is long since done, as is the pacing, and now Holden is reclined on the bed across from him, leafing through papers in a manilla folder and scribbling notes, huffing and grumbling to himself now and then. The local news droning in the background signs off for the night, and Bill peers over at Holden, over his glasses. "Turn that off, will you?" 

Holden doesn't look up. "Inaminute," he mutters.

Bill clears his throat and then waits until Holden looks over. "You've been through that file at least three times tonight. Give it a rest. Go turn off the television." Holden starts to protest, then shuts his mouth and scowls as he closes the file and gets up, dropping it on the table by the bathroom. There's a hint of petulant stomp in his step as he heads over to the set and smacks the button. He paces to the front door and slides the chain lock into place. When he hits the light switch, the whole room plunges into blackness. After a beat of fumbling, Bill clicks on his bedside lamp. "Go to bed, Holden."

"You're not going to bed."

"I'm finishing this chapter."

Holden huffs and climbs under the covers, turning away from Bill, who calmly turns the page. A few paragraphs later, Holden rolls over to face Bill and huffs again.

"Yes?"

"If we just went to the school first yesterday, like you said."

"It was there or the library, we had no way of knowing. It was a fifty-fifty chance. You could have just as easily been right."

"But if we had."

"Don't do this," Bill admonishes without looking up from his book. "You know better than to do this. Go to sleep."

"I fucked up," Holden says, squirming beneath his covers.

Bill closes his book and sets it on his nightstand, removes his glasses and sets them on top of it. Then he turns his head and says to Holden, voice firm and low, "I said stop it."

Holden stops squirming. 

"Stand up."

"What?"

"You heard me. Stand up." 

Holden hesitates, but ultimately slides out from beneath the covers and stands in the space between the beds, looking down at Bill with a confused expression. "Okay?"

Bill lays a hand on Holden's hip and thumbs that sliver of skin where his t-shirt rides up and his waistband dips. He hooks his thumb in the waistband and after a slow blink, he looks up and meets Holden's gaze. Then he pats the bed beside him. "Come here."

Blinking owlishly, Holden sits down, staring straight ahead. 

"You didn't fuck up, Holden." 

"I should've listened to you." 

"Why start now?"

Holden shoots him a pained look.

"You think this is helping anyone? You beating yourself up like this?" Bill lays a hand on Holden's leg and squeezes. 

Holden's expression softens, then his eyes narrow. "Is the pep talk over?"

"Hush," Bill says affectionately, sliding his palm up the length of Holden's thigh, then down. Up again, fingertips grazing Holden's crotch before skimming away again and he feels the muscle of Holden's leg stiffen along with the sound of an indrawn breath. Another trip up, further, and he finds more of Holden stiffening. "You need to relax."

The pained noise Holden makes is something close to a laugh. "Oh yeah?" But even as he says it, he's scooting closer to the edge of the bed and spreading his legs.

But Bill just picks his book and glasses back up. "Take it out," he says as he slips his glasses on and finds his page.

"What?"

"You heard me," he says without looking up. 

Holden hesitates long enough that Bill figures he's about to get up and go back to his own bed. Instead, after several more breaths, he lifts enough to slide everything down to his thighs, then looks at Bill expectantly. Bill finishes his page, turns it, then says, "Go on."

Hesitantly at first, Holden strokes himself, slowly getting thicker and harder as Bill reads the same lines over and over, determined to keep his eyes on the page. After a minute or so, Holden says breathlessly, "Like...this?"

"Yup," Bill says without looking up. "You got the hang of it."

"I h-haven't," Holden says as he speeds up.

"Haven't what?" Bill lays a hand on the small of Holden's back and rubs it. 

"In three days, I haven't...since we..."

"Did I tell you to do that?"

"No? No. No, you said for me to...hah." He exhales sharply as Bill's touch drifts down his spine to the crack of his ass. "Fuck, you said for me to not to start anything and I tried. I did."

"You did good," Bill says, setting his book aside and continuing to rub circles on his partner's back. "You are good."

"I'm not," Holden grits out. "I fucked up, I'm a--"

Bill puts a hand over his mouth, then somehow his fingers are pressing past Holden's lips into the wet heat of him and the word, "Suck," is sneaking past Bill's lips and Holden does, his fist flying a dozen or so more furious strokes before he's groaning and hunching forward, teeth digging against Bill's knuckles as he shudders and comes. Bill's hand slips from his mouth and he rubs circles on Holden's back again until the shudders subside. "Better?" he asks.

Holden nods.

"Good." He sits all the way up and catches Holden by the back of the neck, pulls him in for a quick kiss, then gives his shoulder a shove. "Now go clean up, get into bed, and go to sleep." 

"Mm-hmm." Holden sits there for a moment longer, then gets up and does as he's told. When he returns from the bathroom, considerably less dazed, he sits on the edge of his bed and regards Bill with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Finally, he asks with a gesture in a vague but unmistakeable direction, "Do you want me to--"

"Nope. Go to sleep, Holden." 

"Are you sure I--"

Bill shoots him a silencing look. 

Holden crawls under the covers and lays on his side, head on his pillow, half-lidded eyes fixed on Bill as he continues to read his spy novel. Once his eyes finally drift shut and his breathing evens out, Bill sets his book down quietly and clicks off the bedside lamp. He knows this is asking for trouble. Begging for it, in fact, and part of him wants to believe this won't happen again. He wants to be able to tell himself that, but he's never been the sort of man to harbor delusions, so he doesn't bother. Instead, he takes his own advice and closes his eyes and tries his best to welcome sleep.


End file.
